


Odds and Ends

by ninjaboots



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Multi, Tumblr Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:05:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 8,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninjaboots/pseuds/ninjaboots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of hockey-fic I am not writing, of varying lengths.  </p>
<p>(Most are directly inspired by gif-sets or pic-spams, because I am shamelessly weak for them and my followers are endlessly long-suffering.  I am putting them here because I don't particularly want to lose them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. regency!Sid

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this photo-set](http://listedheart.tumblr.com/post/52662505572/for-astarinyourskies-sid-geno-historical-au).

Sidney had never quite felt at ease in the ton. He had money and good family, which covered for a multitude of sins, but the sparkling conversation, dancing, and fashionable cravats of the Season always somehow left him awkward and treading on the train of someone’s new gown. Taylor’s coming-out this year had been particularly trying, as he had to squire her about town like a dutiful brother and watch as she charmed everyone effortlessly with her artless enthusiasm, and his latest gaffe was tittered at politely behind immaculately gloved hands.

When it was over, he escaped with relief to one of the Crosby country estates, this one boasting a hunting lodge that had not seen use in some years; it had fallen out of favour when he was a boy, and there were delighted, scandalized whispers among the locals that it was haunted. Sidney didn’t believe in any such thing, of course, and he rather thought that the hunting would be excellent, as it had lain unused for so long. 

He would ride in the clean, empty air of the moor and practice his shooting to his heart’s content, with no chiming of crystal wine glasses or whirl of extravagant parties to disturb his peace. A solitary month away was just what he needed to settle his mind. 

He didn’t believe in ghosts or fairy tales. 

He didn’t.

No matter how many times he heard snatches of a language he didn’t understand while on the edge of sleep, or thought for a moment his face in the mirror wasn’t alone, Sidney wasn’t a child or a wide-eyed woman to be taken in by whispered stories of lost Russian princes and curses that could never be broken.

The feeling of warm delight in the air when he made a particularly difficult trick shot was only his own, and surely it was not so unusual for a man to develop a taste for different spirits with age. He had never before desired to try the strange Russian drink called vodka, but a friend of his had once assured him it was excellent, so why not, after all?

He didn’t believe in ghosts, not even when he jolted upright in the dead of night, his heart racing and a name he had never heard before on the edge of his tongue.

_Zhenya._


	2. paleontology!Kaner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by someone asking what was going on in [this picture](http://michaeldelzotto.tumblr.com/post/38338555960).

This always makes me think of student!Kaner, somehow. He isn’t exactly the most traditionally studious, but dinosaurs are awesome, okay, and he’s not sure how he managed to snag a scholarship, but he’s not arguing either. Working on a degree on paleontology while doing part-time shifts at the museum isn’t quite how he’d imagined his future panning out four or five years ago, but how many people actually get to live out their childhood dream, anyway? He may not be playing hockey, but he’s figuring out that this can make him happy too, and his wrist is like, 90% normal so long as he doesn’t over-use it.

He’s pretty sure getting paid to find dinosaur bones is some kid’s fantasy, even if it wasn’t his first dream.

Meeting Jonathan Toews, captain of the Blackhawks, still cuts a little deeper than he would’ve expected, though. Letting go of the game had been hard, and he still only watches sporadically because it reminds him so much of being told he’d never play again at the age of seventeen; Patrick had never really wanted anything as much as he’d wanted hockey, and losing it had shaken everything he’d ever known himself to be. 

Jonny doesn’t stop coming to the museum, though, even after the original charity thing that had brought him there to begin with, and Patrick can’t help feeling a tiny lick of triumph every time he makes him laugh.


	3. obsessed-with-Patrick's-hair!Jonny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, this was written because of/under a gif-set. You can find it [here](http://peekaaboo.tumblr.com/post/35926925223/patrick-kane-curly-hair).

When Jonny sees Kaner like this he has to turn around and leave the room abruptly, without a word, because of how badly he wants to tangle his fingers in that hair and just _pull_. He thinks, helplessly, that it would probably make Kaner’s mouth drop open in surprise, a shocked little _ah_ of breath punching out between those fucking distracting, red-bitten lips as Jonny’s hand tightened in irritating curls and pulled his head back to bare the vulnerable curve of his throat. 

He thinks Kaner’s eyes would be very wide. 

Maybe he wouldn’t even pull away. Maybe he’d lean into it and just—just ask Jonny what he was doing, confused and a bit uncertain but always so fucking _trusting_ underneath the swagger, sure Jonny wouldn’t really hurt him, and. Maybe he’d—maybe—

Fuck. Jonny takes a deep breath, and scowls. 

Tomorrow he’s making Kaner get a haircut. He looks ridiculous.


	4. sensitive-neck!Patrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OH LOOK, [ANOTHER GIF-SET](http://eberles.tumblr.com/post/45909731457). How shocking. This one was actually a request, as it happens--someone messaged me and asked for something sweet, about this being a secret I-love-you message between Kaner and Tazer. This. . . is not quite that. Oops.

Patrick knew exactly how it started. 

He and Jonny had always been competitive, always pushed at each other in a restless, half-joking cycle, locked in some kind of bizarre mutual orbit as they’d circled around what both of them really wanted. They’d bitched and argued and complained about each other constantly, and Patrick had never been able to figure out when exactly being determined not to be the first to blink had turned into not being able to look away. It didn’t really matter, anyway—looking back, he was pretty sure falling into bed with Jonny had been inevitable from the very beginning, and the only thing that had delayed it even a couple of years was how stupid and stubborn and young they’d both been. 

Once they’d figured it out, though… yeah. Patrick grinned. Turned out there were even more fun ways to get rid of all that tension than just yelling at each other on the ice.

The thing with the neck was just dirty pool, though.

He _knew_ it was a weak spot of Patrick’s. He knew it made him kind of slutty and desperate when Jonny got his mouth on him there and licked all slow and wet up his naked throat, shocking him with bright-hot little bites and making him grab at Jonny and try to yank him in closer.

Jesus, even the thought of it was making him clench his fists and try not to squirm.

The point was, giving Patrick an obvious, _deliberately filthy_ once-over with his eyes and then going to talk to the media like _that_ , sloe-eyed and flushed and fucking—just trailing his fingers over his neck, all casual and innocent and like he didn’t know Patrick was watching him—well. It was nothing less than Jonny purposefully being a dick, was what it was. Because he could, and because sleeping with Tazer hadn’t actually changed anything about the way they usually interacted.

It wasn’t like Jonny didn’t get off on it too. Patrick knew it drove Jonny fucking crazy that he couldn’t leave hickeys on Patrick during the season, bite down on his neck and _suck_ until there was a red, wet bruise in the shape of Jonny’s teeth to show where he’d been, and Patrick was scrabbling helplessly at his shoulders, whining high and desperate against the sting. He always fucking covered Patrick with them in the summer, especially right up high on his throat under his ear where there was no way in hell Patrick could hide them. Jonny was exactly that kind of smug, possessive asshole; Patrick never could resist poking at them the day after, and Jonny would just smirk, all self-satisfied and totally pleased with himself, and usually they’d end up right back in bed. (Or against the wall, a couple times. Once on the kitchen table, but then Jonny’d freaked out and made them sanitize the whole room like, twice, before he’d eat there again.)

Patrick paused for a moment, and turned to stare at Jonny narrowly. Turnabout was always fair play, right? Sauce for the goose was sauce for the… something. Male goose. Anyway, Jonny _deserved_ it. He’d practically asked for it when he started this whole thing.

They’d just see how he liked being hard in the locker room.


	5. ambiguous hockey angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [I think this may be the first picture-blurb I did in hockey fandom.](http://lavitabella123.tumblr.com/post/49218874465) Cool.

Most of the time it’s fine. Most of the time it’s hockey, and best buddies, and flying down the ice with the exhilaration that only comes off a beautiful pass from someone who knows without looking where you’ll be, triumph and disappointment and winning and losing and being together through it all.

Most of the time it doesn’t even hurt.

Some nights, though, the on-ice hugs mean a little more to you than you know they should; some nights you close your eyes when he thumps your helmets together after a goal, because you think maybe it’s all over your face and you can’t let him see. 

You know he’s happy. You know you’re his best friend.

You go out with the boys after another win, and you take a shot, and you smile. You tell yourself you’re happy too.


	6. arranged marriage not!fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is not inspired by a photo, as such. It is, however, something of an ongoing saga on my tumblr, because people keep asking for it. Basically, it takes place in a world where arranged marriages never went out of style, and professional sports teams (and major corporations, for that matter) can use marriages as bargaining chips in much the same way aristocratic parents did for their kids.

Patrick took a deep, unsteady breath, and closed the door of his apartment carefully behind him, dropping his jacket on the floor and then sliding down to sit next to it. He stared blindly at the familiar clutter of shoes in his entranceway, trying to work his way through the static in his brain.

That hadn’t exactly been what he’d expected when his agent said they needed to talk. He knew he was coming up on the end of his contract, of course he did, and he’d assumed Brisson wanted to discuss his options as a free agent and what kind of offer the Blackhawks were likely to make.

That much was true, anyway, he supposed. He blew out a breath and banged his head hard back against the door, trying to swallow the feeling of his heart pounding its way up his throat.

They wanted to arrange a marriage for him. They all did, not just Chicago and the city he thought of as his home, but all of the teams Brisson had said were showing interest and calling to talk to management about him. They thought he was still the irresponsible party boy he’d maybe sometimes been in the past, and they wanted him _properly settled down_. Even Brisson had assured him it was the best thing for his career, that it could only help his image, and had seemed matter-of-fact and almost pleased at the prospect.

Patrick had always known it was a possibility, of course. Single, star players in any sport who made more than a million a year were prime pieces on the marriage market, and franchises generally weren’t shy about using wedding contracts to their advantage once their players had been with them long enough to clear the minimum requirements. They were supposed to make serious trades easier, give single athletes a solid grounding in their new city or cement them into a team for good. 

_Not that that had worked out so well in the Carter trade_ , Patrick thought darkly, then shook his head, biting his lip and pushing away from the door. That had been a fucked-up situation. Philly had screwed Carter over, treated him like shit and sold him to the highest bidder, everyone knew that. Marriage contracts weren’t usually like that, and Columbus had signed Carter’s over to the Kings anyway, in the end. It had all worked out fine. Besides, the Hawks wouldn’t do that to Patrick, even if they did decide to trade him. They’d make sure he was okay with—with whoever it was.

He chewed anxiously on his lower lip, pacing over to the window. That wasn’t their first choice, anyway. Brisson had made that clear. Patrick wanted to stay in Chicago, he’d never hidden that, and he was willing to work out a new contract if there was any way that was possible. He hadn’t expected that to include a marriage clause, but maybe—maybe he should have. Everyone seemed to be acting like it was the obvious next step, and he even vaguely recalled his mom joking about it last Christmas. She had been joking, hadn’t she? Patrick tried frantically to recall the tone of her voice, and wasn’t sure. 

He leaned his forehead against the window, staring unseeingly out at Chicago. He wanted to stay here, and Brisson said the Blackhawks wanted him, too, but in the end it wasn’t up to him. He was assured that they were exploring a couple of options (for his _spouse_ , Patrick knew, they were talking to people about _marrying him_ ) and would get back to him with more concrete answers in the next week or so. 

He closed his eyes against the view he wasn’t looking at anyway, and thought again about the last thing Brisson had told him. _Not that I’m supposed to know_ , he’d said, smiling, _but I’ve got some contacts in head office._

Jonny.

They wanted to talk to Jonny. 

Patrick knocked his forehead lightly against the glass, thinking of dark eyes and sure hands and Jonny’s stupid, dorky smile, and wondered helplessly if that would be better or worse than a stranger.


	7. bedtime-story!Sidney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no gifset for this one, because one of my followers asked for a bedtime story. That is also why it's written in a somewhat strange style, and sounds rather like the beginning of a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, not really very long ago, there was a boy with dark curls, dark eyes, and a stubborn heart.

His name was Sidney. 

Sidney loved relatively few things, but when he did he loved deeply and fiercely and with everything he was, because he had never learned any other way. He had tried, over the years, because at his core he had a painful sort of honesty that would not allow him to grin and wink and be less than he was, or pretend to feel other than he did; but in the end it did not matter how hard he wished, or how much he thought it would be easier to be as other children were. He watched them fall easily in love, then swallow their disappointments and paper over the holes in their hearts until they had healed and become happy again, but try as he might he could never quite do the same. 

He loved rarely, Sidney did, but what dug hooks into his heart was there forever. In time he stopped trying to pull them out, or forget the phantom pain of always holding too hard to the things that mattered most to him; it was who he was, and if sometimes it hurt to care so deeply, at least he could assure himself that he was loved as fiercely. The hollow in his chest rang with his sister’s laughter, and the sound of skates on ice, and the fierce pride he still felt every time he wore a maple leaf blazoned there. He was content in what he had, and lived as honestly as he knew how. It was enough, and more than enough, and all that came from the hooks in his heart was joy.

(It was with a strange, creeping ache that he woke one day and pressed a hand to the pounding drum in his chest, frowning. Something had changed, and he thought for a moment the rhythm beat differently against his throat and through the slim blue veins on his wrists than it had the day before—but no. Sidney dismissed the notion. His heart was rarely moved, save for those things that had already pierced it deeply. Surely, surely nothing could have altered its course at last.

He rose, determined to face the day, and stretched in the thin light of morning. Today was a new beginning, and Mario had told him they would be welcoming the new rookie—Malkin—that evening at dinner.

His heart trembled, unnoticed, and turned over.)


	8. secret-virgin!Kaner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what the chapter title implies. A somewhat plausible reason for Kaner to be a virgin, mostly because a friend was having a bad day and wanted it. ~~I REGRET NOTHING.~~

It wasn’t that Kaner was a loser. He was athletic and rich and not too bad to look at, he didn’t think, plus he had a winning personality, okay? He was _endearing_ , his mom always said so.

It was just. Growing up gay and also kind of hockeysexual didn’t leave a whole lot of space for romance, right? Most guys were pretty cool with the idea of gay teammates, but that didn’t always mean they’d be cool about having an _actual_ gay dude in the locker room. People could be dickbags, and he’d heard way too many stories about jocks coming out and getting beaten up or fucked over to want to risk it. Hockey was too important, and there’d already been too many sneering morons who’d said he couldn’t do it, he was too short and too small and not physical enough, and a whole host of other bullshit reasons. He wasn’t about to add one more.

Fuck them, anyway. Kaner was awesome, and his hockey was awesome, and now that the Blackhawks had won a Stanley Cup and were fighting for another, no one was claiming he couldn’t do anything anymore. 

Sometimes he even thought to himself, really quietly and kind of scared, that maybe—maybe he could do this, too. Maybe he could tell his team. They’d understand, he was pretty sure, about the boozing and the fake hitting on girls and pretending to pick up, and none of the ones who mattered would hate him. If they knew, he could even maybe start—dating, or something. Meet somebody. 

He’d still keep it quiet, obviously, and it wasn’t like he was going to admit to the team that he hadn’t really, y’know, gotten quite all the way there with a dude, but. Maybe he could have hockey and everything else he wanted, too.

He swallowed a quick breath at the thought of everything he really, really did want, and squirmed on his chair. Hell, he was going to have to tell his team about the gay thing, because he didn’t think he could stand waiting to punch his v-card much longer.

God, he was going to need to be _so drunk_ for this conversation.


	9. arranged marriage porny proposal outtake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This _does not happen_ in the arranged marriage verse. Mostly. Probably, anyway. Not even Jonny is quite this bad at proposing, and I'm fairly sure it wouldn't go down like this, but I was tricked and pressured into writing something NSFW in this universe in which Jonny convinces Kaner ~~with porn~~ that getting married is a great idea. This is what came out. Enjoy, and I am so sorry.

“Jonny,” Kaner says blankly, mouth half open on a shocked, helpless little laugh. “You—come on, man. You can’t really want—”

“I want what’s best for the team,” Jonny interrupts, folding his arms defensively. “I’ve talked to management, they all think this is the best option—keep the core together, give our contracts some stability—it gives us both a lot more bargaining power, too, I already discussed it with Brisson—”

“This isn’t about our contracts!” Patrick shouts, stalking forward to jab one incredulous finger into Jonny’s sternum. “You’re talking about _marrying me_ , Tazer, do you get that? Forever! Our careers would be tied together even more than they already are, they wouldn’t be able to trade one of us without—”

“Oh, did you want to get traded?” Jonny demands. “You want to leave Chicago?”

“No, of course I don’t want to _leave_ , you moron.” Patrick grits his teeth, shoves a hand up to tug at a lock of his hair, and spins away to pace. He turns back, jaw set stubbornly and a glint in his eyes that distracts Jonny for a moment. He almost thinks it looks like Patrick’s nervous about something. “I’m just not sure you’re thinking this through, man,” Patrick says carefully, with what looks like superhuman reserves of patience. 

Jonny snorts before he can stop himself. “Are you trying to say that I’m not taking this _seriously_ enough, Kaner?” 

A quick grin tugs at Patrick’s mouth, there and gone in an instant. “Maybe,” he allows. “It’s just, uh. I mean, marriage, Jonny. It’s not. That’s not exactly like being buddies.” He’s chewing nervously on his lower lip, making it shine red, even as he keeps his shoulders straight and stares almost defiantly at Jonny’s face.

“So, what? You think we can’t do it?” Jonny can feel his eyebrows drawing together into a glare. Trust Kaner to over-complicate everything at absolutely the wrong time. 

Patrick rolls his eyes back and mutters something under his breath, scowling. It doesn’t sound complimentary. “Look—since when are you even into dudes?” he bursts out. “I’m not spending the rest of my life in some kind of fucked-up celibate duty marriage, you asshole, and I’m not—I’m not going to have an _open relationship_ , or whatever, okay? It’s not—” he cuts himself off, frowning thunderously.

“ _That’s_ what your problem is?” Jonny asks, incredulous. “Jesus, Kaner. You think I’d be into an open marriage? Really?”

“No,” Patrick mutters, “but I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking right now. You like girls, Jonny.” He’s avoiding Jonny’s eyes now, and Jonny frowns. He takes a step forward, trying to get Patrick to look at him again.

“Yeah, I like girls,” he admits, swallowing. “I don’t—not like boys, though.” He ignores the way Patrick’s head whips back up to stare at him. “Just because I haven’t dated any, like, _recently_ —”

“Bullshit,” Patrick says disbelievingly. “You’ve never dated any at _all_.”

Jonny grits his teeth. “How would you know, Kaner, you’re not my _mom_.”

“So if I called Andree right now,” Kaner asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, “she’d say _yeah, Patrick, of course Jonathan has told me all about his secret love for cock_ —”

“It wasn’t a secret!” Jonny interjects, and now he’s the one shouting. “It’s not a big deal, I don’t know why you’re being so unreasonable about this!” 

“I am _not being unreasonable!_ It's perfectly reasonable to want my husband to know what the hell he’s doing in bed, okay, and maybe actually _want me_!”

His face is flushed and his lips are half-open and bitten red, and Jonny abruptly decides that talking obviously isn’t going to get them anywhere. He has half a second’s glimpse of Patrick’s eyes widening in shock as he ducks in before his own close and he takes full, ruthless advantage of that half-open mouth. See if Kaner can keep arguing with him _now_ , he thinks with unformed triumph.

Patrick’s mouth is slick and hot and tastes vaguely like Gatorade, and Jonny doesn’t waste any time nudging his head to the angle he wants and biting his way _in_ until Patrick stops flailing in shock and starts kissing back. He’s as determined not to let Jonny win here as he is in every other aspect of their lives, and Jonny hisses as sharp teeth catch on his lower lip. He can feel Patrick’s mouth curve in a smug grin against his cheek, and he shoves him blindly backwards until his back hits the wall with a sharp _ah_ punched out of his chest. 

“Come on, Kaner,” he says hoarsely, pulling away for a moment. “You know it’s a good idea.”

Patrick looks dazed, tongue swiping carefully out over his spit-slick lips. “Jonny,” he sighs out, looking away. Jonny finds his hands tightening on Patrick’s waist as he continues hesitantly, “Maybe it’s not—maybe it would mess us up, man, you don’t know—”

Jonny huffs out a breath that even to his own ears sounds suspiciously close to a growl and plants a hand on the wall as he bends down to shut Kaner up, determined now to convince him any way he has to. He gets a hand on Kaner’s jaw to tilt his head back and dives in, biting and sucking and twisting his tongue lewdly against Kaner’s as he surges up against him with a groan.

He wants to bruise Patrick’s mouth, leave it open and slick and swollen from his lips, kick between his feet and cradle his head between his palms until he stops _arguing_ with him, lets Jonny in and lets him _fix this_.

So he does. He kisses Patrick until he’s gasping, hands bunched in the material at his shoulders and most of his weight distributed between Jonny and the wall as they grind jaggedly together.

“Marry me,” Jonny forces out, pulling away to get a hand on Patrick through his jeans, stroking roughly at the hot length of him there as Kaner _whines_ , shuddering.

He groans at the sight of him and covers his mouth again before Patrick can answer him, fucking in with his tongue until Kaner’s taking hitched, sobbing little breaths around it, squirming helplessly against him. Jonny’s not letting go of him, he’s sure of that now—he’s not letting Kaner go _anywhere_ , married off to fucking—someone in Edmonton, or New York—they wouldn’t know how to handle him there. His _husband_ wouldn’t know how to—

He’s pulled out of his inner monologue by one of Patrick’s hands tightening on the join of his neck and shoulder, nearly hard enough to bruise. Kaner is scrabbling viciously at his shoulders for balance, leaning back to reach his mouth, feet precariously far apart and legs wide open for Jonny.

Jonny feels drunk.

He pulls back from Patrick’s mouth, breathing hard, and goes for his neck. He’s not gentle, biting across it to the sound of increasingly louder moans until he reaches Patrick’s ear, demanding hoarsely “Say it.”

Patrick just whimpers, hips working desperately with Jonny's hand.

“Come on, Kaner," Jonny coaxes, licking his lips.  He gets his other hand in Patrick's hair and tilts his head so Jonny can talk to him better, breath still washing hot over the shell of his ear.  “Gonna—keep you here.  In Chicago, where you _belong_ , with the team, with—“ He stops, takes a harsh breath, still rubbing tight, maddening circles against the front of Kaner’s pants that make him shove helplessly into his hand. “Come on, Patrick. You just—gotta tell me.  Keep you right where I can get my hands on you—"

Patrick's head is tilted back, neck stretched bare and vulnerable under Jonny's mouth, and he's blind, desperate, can only choke out “Please, Jonny. . .”

Jonny stops.

He doesn't know what he's doing, he's not thinking anymore; all he knows is that Kaner's open and shaking in his hands and he _likes_ it, likes getting what he wants from him.  

He's going to.  He's going to get _exactly_ what he wants from him.

The broken little cry Kaner lets out washes like a hot shudder down his back, and he crowds in closer, breathing hard.  “Tell me what I want to hear, Kaner.  Come on.  Say you'll marry me, you'll stay right—here—"

He opens Patrick’s mouth again with a thumb on his jaw, licks right in and bites delicately down on his plush lower lip before he can say anything, ignoring the shaking fingers curling hard in his hair.

After a long moment of indulging in Patrick’s mouth, he pulls back again to get a thigh between his legs and watch the heat flushing red and fever-quick over Kaner's face as he starts to move desperately against him.  Jonny's aching in his own dress pants, but he holds back, watching and feeling his breaths scrape hard out of his throat.  “That's—that's good, Kaner," he says roughly, barely even hearing himself.  “That's—good, come on, tell me—"

And then Kaner cries out “Yes, Jonny, please, yes—I’ll—oh—" and comes hard, moaning and over-heated, still fully dressed.

His forehead is resting on Jonny's shoulder as he sags, panting into his shirtfront, and Jonny finds he’s weirdly almost annoyed about that, like Kaner had no business hiding from him while he shook apart under his hands.

He bites his lip, hard, and sets Patrick gently back on his own feet. That’s okay, he consoles himself. They’re going to be married, after all. 

There’s plenty of time.


	10. almost-married!jonny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still fundamentally incapable of not putting words underneath pictures that do not actually need them. The graphic that inspired this particular piece of nonsense [is here](http://ninjaboots.tumblr.com/post/53655552757/ninjaboots-when-jonny-looks-back-to-when-they). 
> 
> It's also worth noting that this originally ended at the word 'Texas', but then people on my dash got all upset and bullied/bribed me into finishing it. Oops.

When Jonny looks back to when they were rookies, that’s still what he remembers. Before the girlfriends and the arguments and the trade rumours, the hidden glances that neither of them ever had the courage to take any further, the aching constriction in his throat every time Patrick slid over to a pretty girl at the bar and carefully didn’t look at Jonny; before he whispered _I can’t_ , one never-mentioned, alcohol-hazed late night in Dallas when they’d come closer than they ever had to facing the nameless, sparking something that hummed like a livewire between them. 

It had been so simple, once. Two relative unknowns, with the weight of a city on their shoulders and no idea how heavy it could become as they promised each other that one day they’d bring the Cup back here, and pride along with it, grinning recklessly because they both knew they’d be at each other’s backs all the way. The world was stacked against them and it didn’t matter, couldn’t stand a chance against the two of them together as they broke though every ceiling they could find and stormed into the spotlight, pushing and pulling and making each other _better_ until somehow they’d fulfilled every crazy, impossible promise they’d ever made.

All of it had been so obvious, so easy, so much like it had been meant to be.

Jonny stands at the altar on his wedding day, and smiles stiffly when Zoe lifts her veil. He wonders, helplessly, where he would be standing instead if he had given Patrick a different answer, three years ago on a cloudy, humid night in Texas.

 

That doesn’t matter anymore, though. What matters is what’s here, in front of him, the life he’s always wanted and the choices he’s made to get to where he is; what matters is the man he’s always expected himself to be.

Zoe’s dark eyes are wet but sure, and Jonny thinks about family, about little voices calling him _daddy_ and busy mornings full of chaos and noise and cereal spilled on the floor. He thinks about Zoe laughing in the kitchen and her hair shining with rain on the night he met her, and swallows when his eyes drop to the barely-visible bump under her white dress.

Jonny’s always wanted kids. He wants the noise and the mess and the backyard barbeques and summers in Canada, easy and uncomplicated and the perfect picture of domestic bliss.

He’s always wanted just this.

The minister asks him a question Jonny barely hears, and it’s with a strange sense of deja vu that he feels his mouth moving to choke out the same two words that have haunted him since Dallas.

"I can’t."

He watches Zoe’s beautiful eyes close, and ignores the chaos erupting around them as she takes a deep breath, and—nods. 

"Go get him, Jonny," she says quietly, and Jonny wants to tell her he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to hurt her, but he’s never had the words.

He drops her hand and runs.


	11. sneaky!geno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not think this is my best work. Eh. I'm sorry.
> 
> The deeply unfair photo of Geno in a horribly well-fitted henley can be viewed [here on my tumblr](http://ninjaboots.tumblr.com/post/54416263360/reallylameartist-how-can-you-be-so-perfect).

Sid hates that shirt. He hates how soft it looks, how it clings to broad shoulders and emphasizes a trim, powerful waist, and he especially hates that it’s borderline transparent. He can see the glint of Geno’s necklace through the fabric, sliding carelessly across collarbones and catching on chest hair as the gold chain shifts in response to Geno’s gestures. 

Geno’s _always_ gesturing, too, trying to explain with his hands when his English isn’t quite up to the task, or throwing his head back to laugh and then tossing an arm around Sid’s shoulder to bring him in on the joke, grinning at him like a conspiracy. The physical contact is harder to deal with off the ice, when there aren’t pads and jerseys and helmets and the immediacy of _hockey_ between them; Geno’s side is so warm through the barely-there barrier of that horrible shirt, and when Sid turns his head he can smell the spicy scent of Geno’s weird Russian soap. He could bury his nose in the divot at the base of his throat if he just leaned forward. 

He laughs awkwardly instead, and shrugs out of Geno’s hold on him as quickly as he politely can. It’s maybe not as smooth as he wishes it were, but everyone knows Sid can be twitchy about being touched too much. He’s pretty sure no one’s figured out yet that with Geno, it’s because he likes it too much.

"Right," he says, as decisively as he can manage. "Weights and hill running tomorrow, so I’d better head out." He does his best not to look directly at Geno because he knows perfectly well that he’ll be employing the sad-yet-judgemental face he must have learned directly from his dog and that Sid has no real defence against. Everything’s too close tonight, _Geno’s_ been too close and too warm and smelling too good and Jesus Christ Sid can see the shadow of his nipples through that shirt.

He has to get out of here.

Geno _tchah_ s dismissively, and follows him to the door. "Sid always work so hard," he says solemnly, eyes exaggeratedly wide. "Should learn to play also, yes? Have fun."

Sidney grins in spite of himself, and shakes his head. "Some people would remind you that my entire career is a game," he points out. "All I do is play." He shuffles into his crocs and turns back to say his goodnights, smile still tucked into the corners of his mouth, and blinks to find Geno closer than he expected.

"Not what I mean, Sid," Geno says quietly, eyes glittering. "Should be more in life than hockey. Friends, hobby—maybe date, yes? Find someone to take care. Make Sid happy." 

"I--am happy," Sid manages to croak, caught off guard and eyes wide as Geno seems to study his face. Finally he smiles, slowly. 

"Yes, Sid happy," he muses. "Could be happier, though, I think." He nods once, smile becoming abruptly brighter. "Okay. You go home, have sleep, tomorrow you train. Work hard, because Sid. Then you come back here. We have dinner."

"No, Geno, you don’t have to—" Sid tries to protest, befuddled, because he has no idea what’s happening but he knows Geno hates cooking. Geno ignores him, though, shaking his head and making shushing noises as he steps in closer. He’s inches away from Sid now, and still smiling at him like he knows a secret.

Sid freezes and feels his heart hammering his his chest as Geno leans closer still, because this can’t possibly be what it looks like. There’s no way—what’s Geno doing, is he—he’s reaching for Sid’s _hip_ —

Geno’s hand brushes lightly past him, and Sidney hears a click as he unlocks the door. 

"Good night, Sid," he murmurs. "I see you tomorrow. Six." Then he’s pushing Sidney carefully out the door, and closing it behind him with one soft, final _snick_.

Sid stares dumbly at it for several seconds. His mouth is dry.

What just happened?


	12. sleeping-beauty-faery-prince!sidney

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually intended to, you know, contain Geno. It doesn't, but if it helps I know exactly where he is in this universe and how Sidney meets him when he gathers up the strength to move on. Erm. Sorry, this one's a bit weird, but I'm quite fond of it anyway.
> 
> (As is nearly always the case, it was inspired by [a picture](http://ninjaboots.tumblr.com/post/54494619384/stretchedlobes-its-the-wind-across-his#notes), first seen on my tumblr.)

It’s the wind across his cheek that wakes him. It smells strange, of lichen and must and stagnant water, and Sidney shivers. It shouldn’t be so cold.

He turns his head to bury his face more firmly in the linen of his bedsheets, and startles into a sneeze when he gets a mouthful of dust instead. When he tries to blink, his eyes are slow to creak open and feel dry and gummy, as if he had overslept. 

Overslept.

Sidney pushes himself up on stiff, trembling arms and stares, feeling his heart creep up his throat and pound, frantic. The fine hangings are grey and crumbling into dust on the floor, where roots and the creeping fingers of vines have broken the stones and left his bed listing dangerously to one side, the mahogany of the frame dull and water-stained. When his fingers clench in the sheets, they crackle and rip like paper beneath his palms. 

The last thing he remembers—the last thing—he remembers his sister. The battle was coming closer, and raged against the outer walls, and the pair of them had fled grim-faced down pathways they knew as well as their own palms. When they reached the keep—Sidney chokes, bile rising thin and acid in his throat—she had promised him. Sidney was the heir to the throne and it was his responsibility to remain safe and protected, to ensure that one member at least of the royal family would remain to lead their people when the ashes settled, but Taylor had promised him she would come to wake him as soon as the battle ended. 

_It won’t be long_ , she’d said, fierce and determined and not at all the little sister he had once taught to freeze patterns into the water beneath her feet. _I’ll come back for you, Sidney. The wards will open again when it’s safe._

Safe.

Sidney heaves in a breath, then another, and forces himself upright against muscles that don’t want to remember how to stand. He staggers to the window that now stands open, grimed over with dirt and the hanging shadows of leaves, and tries to call out. His throat closes, dry and spasming, and he coughs for a moment into silence, leaning against the rough stone.

When he recovers enough to stand straight, he doesn’t try to call out again. His eyes are tear-hazed from the wracking coughs, but he can see the scorch marks on tumbled walls, faded from years of rain and scouring sun. The gate where Taylor had sworn so fiercely she would come back is crushed beneath an oak tree, and the vibrant streets Sidney remembers are desolate and green with ruin.

The world is changed, somehow, and Sidney wonders with a stirring sense of despair what he’s meant to do now.


	13. box of kanes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Uh. I co-wrote a ridiculous thing in which Kaner turns into an [angry ginger kitten](http://archiveofourown.org/works/786766/chapters/1489276) with icehot13 some time ago, and Bellaphant enjoyed it enough to ask for more. This. . . is not quite what she asked for, but [this photo](http://ninjaboots.tumblr.com/post/56505408862/curioucer-kittiess-jonny-had-mostly-come-to#notes) happened, and there's never enough vaguely-traumatized Jonny in the world, amirite?

Jonny had mostly come to terms with the fact that Kaner sometimes—unbelievably—turned into an extremely angry, demanding, _loud_ ginger kitten when he got too stressed. (It was even, he thought with a vague sort of despair, horribly endearing in a way that an enraged ball of violently orange fluff attempting to claw its way up your shin should really never be. This had to be some form of Stockholm syndrome.)

Kaner had, on that first ridiculous, brain-breaking morning, muttered something about genetic conditions and his family history, then hastily changed the subject to his apparently urgent need for pancakes and bacon, making a beeline to Jonny’s kitchen to rummage through his fridge and talk loudly about grease and carbs. Jonny had, obviously, been immediately distracted by Kaner deliberately fucking with his nutrition plan and had been forced to stalk after him and make egg-white and spinach omelettes in self-defence.

Looking back on it, Jonny had to grudgingly admit that Patrick had played him like a master, because Jonny had known that his family was visiting him in Chicago this weekend, but he had never in his wildest nightmares imagined anything like this was possible.

"Donna," he stammered, staring in dumb, dawning horror down at the box, “I really don’t—"

She cut him off with a sharp _pchfft_ noise he was sinkingly certain his own mother had made more than once. "Don’t be silly, Jonathan," she said, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. "Patty told us months ago you’d found out, and I have some errands to run this morning. He and the girls won’t be any trouble, I’m sure, and they’ll turn back soon enough once they get it out of their systems."

“ _Donna_ ," Jonny tried again, ignoring the embarrassing crack of panic in his voice. 

She smiled fondly. "Thank you, Jonny. I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for Patrick, you know."

Jonny closed his mouth, and smiled weakly. She patted his cheek once, something disturbingly like smugness lurking in the curve of her lips, and closed the door behind her. Jonny swallowed, hands tightening on the cardboard box, and looked down.

The black one—was it Erica? Jonny thought, a little hysterical, that maybe it was Erica—blinked big blue eyes up at him and yawned, sitting up. Kaner grumbled, shifting, and kicked the smaller tabby in the head.

She yowled.

Jonny whimpered.


	14. homesick!geno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, there's no real explanation necessary for this one, though to understand it would probably help to look at [this post](http://ninjaboots.tumblr.com/post/57141321457/ya-veryu-v-tebya-i-believe#notes) to understand what Sidney is saying.

Sometimes Zhenya wakes up in the morning disoriented, feeling like his house is too big and too empty, with the sunlight cutting across his face at the wrong angle and his bed linens smelling as impersonal as a hotel. He heaves himself out of bed and goes downstairs to open his fridge and stare blankly at the eggs and fruit, then unenthusiastically makes himself an omelette that tastes as bland and salty as all the food here does. 

Even in winter it rarely gets very cold, and the grey slush in the streets is constantly thawing and re-freezing into an unappealing wet sludge that echoes the feeling in Zhenya’s chest on days like this. English buzzes unintelligibly in his ears, and it’s a struggle to find anything on the radio even remotely familiar to the music he grew up listening to, let alone anything he knows well enough to sing along with. Even his teammates, when he gets to the rink, call him _Geno_ like it’s his name, like it’s who he’s always been and not a word they hung on him as an awkward, half-mute rookie because they couldn’t pronounce who he’d been until then.

(Zhenya knows this is unfair. He knows they love him, and more than one drunken night out has devolved into a game of _try to say Geno’s real name_ until he shudders in only half-feigned horror at their mangled efforts and orders them all to just call him Geno, it’s less painful. He loves them too, even when he’s heartsick with the longing for home.)

He came here for hockey, and he’s never regretted it, not really. He wanted to play with the best in the world and he still wants that, but some days everything about this country sits on him subtly wrong, like cheap skates that don’t quite fit and rub blisters into his heel. 

He tries not to think about how far away his family is.

Those are the days when even hockey doesn’t seem to flow quite right, and the ugly frustration in his chest ratchets higher and higher because he can’t get through the opposing team’s defence, and he can’t make the words on his tongue twist into the right shapes to explain what he’s trying to do when Coach asks him. He racks up stupid penalties and wants to smash his stick into the boards and talk to someone who actually _understands_ him. 

Sid skates up to him during a pause in play, when Zhenya’s got his head hanging as he tries to breathe through the frustration. He needs to get it together. He needs—

Sid’s voice breaks through his angry reverie, quiet and awkward, stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables. Zhenya raises his head, blinking, and turns to stare. He thinks maybe he’s gaping.

Sidney just smiles, something rueful and self-deprecating in the twist of his lips. He always was one of the most painfully awful at trying to say Zhenya’s name, and clearly he knows that that carries over to his ability to pronounce Russian as a whole. "C’mon, Geno," he says, tapping his stick against Zhenya's skates as he turns to skate away. "Niemi’s weak on the left glove side. We should be able to get one past him."

Zhenya looks at his back for a moment before snorting to himself and shaking his head. When he catches up to Sid, he flings an arm over his shoulder and tells him, “Have been trying to leave space for Sid to score, but you take too long. Watch, next shift. I show you how it’s done."

Sidney squawks, indignant, and starts demanding something about how anyone was supposed to score when Geno kept leaving them shorthanded, but Zhenya just smiles.

It’s not quite Russia, but maybe Pittsburgh isn’t so bad, after all.


	15. wearing-geno's-necklace!sid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the shock and surprise of everyone, this is [once again because of a gifset](http://ninjaboots.tumblr.com/post/57681116931/sometimes-reporters-still-ask-sidney-about-genos#notes).
> 
> I know, I know, I'm a one-trick pony.

Sometimes reporters still ask Sidney about Geno’s necklace, even after Geno broke his contract with the Penguins and went back to Russia, to all accounts surprising every friend he had in the States. They ask him if he’s heard from Malkin at all in the months since then, if he hadn’t been betrayed worse than anyone else when Malkin walked away from them all without a backwards glance, and apparently without a word, then or since. They ask why, above all, he still wears a chain from someone who allegedly never gave him even the courtesy of an explanation. 

Sidney’s face closes, a little, and goes private and distant as his jaw sets, and he looks down and adjusts the golden links around his throat so they’re hidden by the collar of his shirt. He looks back up from under the brim of his hat, and gives a media-perfect answer about trusting Geno’s reasons, that his family back in Russia means a lot to him, and he and the Penguins organization wish him all the best; he’s always been a great friend, and Sidney hopes he’s happy. The interviews never last long after that, as Sidney’s careful smile falters and his responses grow shorter until the media is brusquely ushered out.

The reporter who asks the question, invariably, does not gain access to the locker room again.

(The rest of the team has long since given up on Geno, hurt and angry and baffled by his silence, by the abandonment all of them feel, but every night after he’s been asked that question, Sidney brushes his fingers absently, achingly over the chain he never takes off and resolves to text him one more time. 

Every night, he hopes that this time Geno will answer.)


	16. bartender!Duncs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Bartender!Duncs doing his thing](http://ninjaboots.tumblr.com/post/62666618110/thecristenentries-duncan-keith-passing-out#notes) on my tumblr.

Duncs loves his job, most days. It’s not glamourous or exciting—the hours are shit, and he’s never going to get rich—but tending bar is weirdly relaxing, even when it’s full of drunk college kids and skeezy businessmen awkwardly ordering drinks for women half their age. 

The people-watching alone is worth it, really, and his regulars all tip well. Toews, the over-worked law intern just out of school, comes in a couple of nights a week and takes over one of the booths against the wall, drinking what Duncs privately considers one of their more pretentious beers and shuffling through paperwork. He’s usually quiet and focused, nodding sharply when asked if he wants a re-fill and rarely looking up. 

Duncs appreciates that in a regular, honestly. He’s never yet had to throw him out for being a little shit and stirring up trouble. (Unlike the Shaw kid, who means well but can’t seem to figure out that picking fights with assholes who outweigh him several times over never ends well. It’s getting to the point where Duncs is considering banning him from the bar if Bollig isn’t with him to keep a handle on the idiot.)

He’s interrupted in his musings by the sound of raised voices down the bar. Toews is in again tonight, and—shit, Duncs forgot to warn the new kid that he likes to sprawl out in his chair, and half the time his legs end up halfway across the aisle. There’s beer and broken glass all over the floor, not to mention Toews’s paperwork. Fuck.

Duncs throws down the rag he was lazily using to wipe the bar and moves to hurry around it and help the new kid—Patrick, he thinks his name was, though Seabs keeps calling him Kaner—but Toews is already up and pushing past him. He pauses a moment to mutter something that sounds almost like an apology and throw a handful of bills on the bar, then stomps away. Duncs nearly misses his pause at the door to glance back at Kaner, who’s pink to the ears and muttering to himself as he gets down on his knees and starts to sweep the glassware carefully into the garbage. Toews’s steps stutter before he shakes his head and shoves his way out into the cold.

Duncs can feel his eyebrows rising. Well.

The people-watching here might have just gotten a bit more interesting.


	17. insomniac!Sid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was not based on a pic or gif-set, but instead written through [a series of asks](http://hungrylikethewolfie.tumblr.com/post/63349879030/once-upon-a-time-not-so-very-long-ago-it-might-even) for my lovely hungrylikethewolfie, who couldn't sleep. That also explain why it's a bit disjointed and the tone of it changes so drastically throughout--I couldn't see what I'd already written after I hit 'submit', so each individual message was written in a bit of a vacuum. Sorry!

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, (it might even, Reader, have happened this very night) a young man lay awake. His name was Sidney Crosby, and his bones were lax and weighted with exhaustion; his heart beat slow and heavy; his eyes would not close. He stared unblinking at the drowsy darkness over his bed, and waited for the pleasant, muted ache of well-used muscles to draw him down into sleep.

He waited some more.

After several small eternities of patient drifting, Sidney sighed—a curiously muffled, half-breathy sound. He rolled the weight of his head to one side (with extreme reluctance) to peer at the hazy yellow numbers floating above his nightstand. He had gone to bed at shortly after midnight, heavy with the adrenaline crash that followed a well-played game; the feeling of victory still ghosted, buzzing, along his veins.

1:38 AM.

Sidney blinked blearily at the clock, watching the numbers change to first 1:39 and then 1:40.

Maybe he was hungry. He could feel his face pulling into a frown as he took stock: he’d eaten his post-game meal at the arena with the rest of the team, then come home and had his post-post-game snack before going to bed, exactly as the dietitian had recommended. He shouldn’t need any more calories until morning, and he _did_ need to stay well-rested or he wouldn’t be ready for skate in the morning.

The frown on his face pulled harder, and Sidney woke up further.

This was the _last_ thing he needed. It was the start of the season, and with Tanger and Nealsy already out, the Pens couldn’t afford to be sluggish. Sidney knew the team took their cues from him, and he needed to stay on the top of his game to keep them on top of theirs. He closed his eyes, determined. Time to sleep.

At 2:14, he threw his pillows off the bed. Maybe he’d sleep better if his neck wasn’t cranked so uncomfortably high.

At 2:23, he retrieved one pillow, and rolled onto the cooler side of the bed.

At 2:46, he stomped his way down to the kitchen. His mother used to swear by warm milk with cinnamon, and it was worth a try.

(At 2:59, he abandoned the sticky goo in the pan to soak in the sink, escaping back upstairs with a guilty frown. He’d deal with it in the morning.)

At 3:06, he was standing in his bedroom, staring at the bed with a tight, angry set to his mouth when his phone lit up. Sidney turned, almost relieved to have an excuse not to have to face sliding back between the sheets and trying once more to sleep just yet. Who was texting him at this hour, anyway?

_Geno_ , the display read. Sid’s eyebrows knitted together. Why was Geno—? He fumbled with the phone, tapping the message open.

_/Sid forget goodnight fist! Send now! ——I >/_

Sidney stared at the phone. He thought that the weird arrow thing was meant to be a fist-bump emoticon, maybe, and it was true that he usually got fist-bumps from Geno and Flower as well as his linemates after a game before going home, but. Geno had been busy when Sid was heading out, and he wasn’t _that_ dependent on his rituals. There was no way that had been keeping him from sleeping.

He stared at the phone some more, then briskly tapped out, _/Why are you still awake? Go to sleep, G!/_ and set it down on the nightstand.

At 3:14, Sidney made it two steps toward the bed before turning around, snatching up his phone, and hurriedly sending Geno one more message.

_/---l >/_

__There. He collapsed into bed, wiggling into a comfortable position._ _

__He’d talk to Geno about not leaving him hanging for hours next time in the morning._ _


End file.
